The beauty of the wound is seductive. Is it any wonder that we pirouette in our wounds; continually sing about our scars? However, by allowing ourselves to be seduced, the sacrifice is profound. We sacrifice the moment.

I am continually called to sing about the beauty of healing (Chiron in the second house influence, perhaps), though occasionally I am lured into the beauty of the wound itself. It’s the entrancing rabbit hole.

I look up from my journal, where I’ve just scribbled the all inclusive anatomy of an energetic wound. It is a vast constellation to be unraveled. It was the boss; no, the bully; no, the father; no, the womb, past life, archetypal misfire. The deeper one goes into the wound, the deeper the wound goes.

To sing of our scars is necessary sometimes, however there's a fine line between expressing pain and adopting the wound as a core story. It only takes singing it once fully, completely, to be done with it. It closes the energetic loop. If we sing the song of our wound too long, we’ll summon others into our lives based on those vibrations.

Wounds are comfortable, in a sense. They’re familiar to the milieu. We live in a world seared with scars. If we looked out on Eden tomorrow, perhaps our systems would go into shock.

There are countless reasons to adhere to them. Perhaps we believe we’re bonding with the planet, with a parent, with a partner. Let those reasons go.

The simple truth is that living through wounds perpetuates suffering. If you're going to sacrifice just one thing on this path, let it be your suffering.

Every day, every hour, every minute, scores of cells are dying and being reborn into your story. We embody the resurrection every second. What story are your cells birthing into?

Love and Bloom

Steven Budden

Budden Enterprises